


please insert your own poetic title, I've done enough already

by smolqueernerds



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, this may read like crack fic but I assure you it is not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9047897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolqueernerds/pseuds/smolqueernerds
Summary: There was that first game, the dirty-goal game, the game that started it all. The game that led to the second game where Mashkov checked him into the boards twice, and the third where Kent impulsively retaliated to a stream of angry Russian with a string of faintly remembered French curse words, and the day when #ParsonvsMashkov started trending on Twitter. Eventually Kent couldn’t troll a single hockey blog without catching sight of a gif of himself getting hauled up by the scruff of his neck, and he’s pretty sure he even caught a few glimpses of erotic fanfiction. He manfully resisted the temptation to read any of it, because he’s learned from the Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann tags on various websites that what seems hilarious on the surface can quickly take a dark turn, and - yeah, not thinking about that anymore.
A brief moment that takes place near the beginning of a very long journey.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiptoe39](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/gifts).



> ‘Swawesome Santa gift for the extraordinary tiptoe39, author of some of my favorite works in this fandom, with apologies for the long wait, the short length, and every other issue with this fic. I had no idea that midterms and next semester’s registration were going to take up quite this much time. Still, happy holidays, and I hope that this fits your "snapshot" prompt!

“When was last time you had date?” Tater asks, in the middle of what was otherwise a perfectly nice dinner, and Kent promptly drops a very old, very expensive bottle of wine on the carpet.

They both sit there and stare at it seeping into the carpet for several long seconds. The carpet was a fairly dark red in the first place, though, so the stain won’t be noticeable.

“I never liked wine anyway,” Kent says eventually, and goes to the kitchen to retrieve a trash can and a towel.

Tater gets down on his hands and knees to help him wipe it up, despite Kent’s protests that he can handle it himself, and between the two of them, the broken bottle is quickly disposed of.

If nothing else, that small catastrophe should have been enough for Tater to forget or politely pass over the question, but soon he’s pushing again. “Never seen you with anyone, Parson. Why?”

“I don’t have time for dating,” Kent answers, and takes the largest mouthful of spaghetti possible in an attempt to avoid further questions because the only thing ruder than talking with your mouthful is asking questions of someone who’s got their mouth full.

Emily Post is rolling over in her grave tonight. “Are you, what Zimmboni calls it, aromantic?”

Kent chokes on his spaghetti before swallowing it down with as little coughing as possible. “No, I’m not aro. Uh, Zimms taught you that word?”

“Well, his friend, actually. Loud man with mustache and long hair. Very fashionable.”

“Think I might know him,” Kent says, thinking back to a guy in a tattered American flag vest at a long-ago kegster. “But I’m not aromantic. I’m just not looking for a relationship.”

Tater sighs melodramatically. “This is way of the world. Beautiful man, could have love anywhere, does not look for it. Other beautiful man, looking for love, cannot find it. Tragic, no?”

Kent is thoroughly unsure how to react over the fact that Tater just called him beautiful. His first instinct is to chirp him for it, but, sensing danger, he heads for safer territory. “Let me guess, you’re a romantic sap?”

“Just want somebody to love,” Tater rambles happily, and maybe it’s a good thing they didn’t open the wine, because he seems loopy enough already without getting drunk. “And cook for. And own dogs with. Lots of dogs.”

“And 2.5 kids and a white picket fence?”

Tater’s brow creases. “Why is child cut in half?”

“It’s a joke, Tates. Forget it.”

“I would paint fence orange, not white. Or pink. Or green.”

“That would look god-awful.”

“Would bring color to people’s lives.”

“You’d get sued, Mashkov. Disturbing the peace. Defiling the neighborhood aesthetic.”

“Let them try me in court. I am very persuasive.”

“Sure you are, big guy.”

“Is okay if you don’t want relationship,” Tater says, changing the subject at a speed that nearly gives Kent whiplash. “But if you do want, you should go get.”

“How is this any of your business?” Kent snaps.

He expects Tater to laugh it off, but instead, Tater lowers his head and stares down at the tabletop. “Sorry. Was out of bounds.”

“Whoa, Tater, no. Mashkov, no. Alexei,” Kent says, his tongue stumbling a little over the syllables. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

Tater cuts him off. “Too nosy. I know this. Your business not mine. You are not mine. Obviously. No one is anyone else’s.”

“Slow down, big guy,” Kent says, allowing a teasing edge to creep into his voice again. 

“Sorry,” Tater repeats, and  _ no _ , that was not what Kent wanted. “ _ Trying _ . Want to be friends.”

“We are friends,” Kent says, trying to sound reassuring, but probably just sounding confused. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

Tater sighs gustily. “Not that. Am worried about….about wanting too much.”

The world should go silent right now, or narrow to Tater’s face, or something, but it stubbornly refuses to comply. There’s just Kent, trying and failing to find somewhere non-awkward to look, gripping the armrests of his wingback chair for dear life, barely able to manage a feeble “Oh.”

“Yes,” Tater says, his eyes flicking upward to meet Kent’s. “Too much of a problem?”

“No!” Kent blurts out. “I mean, yes! I mean, god, this is complicated, Tates.”

“Simple enough to me. You want friendship, or dating, or nothing. Any is okay.”

There’s a million and one reasons why Kent can’t do this, but the one that jumps to his tongue is, “I’m no good at relationships, Tater.” It’s the biggest understatement he’s ever made. “I’m no good at anything but hockey.” 

“But you are good for so much more than hockey, Kent Parson,” Tater says earnestly, leaning over the table. “You are smart, and funny, and have beautiful cat, and if tomorrow you broke leg so badly could never play hockey again, life would still be good.”

Kent wrinkles his nose. “Do I have to break my leg? I have great legs. Rather crack a few ribs, or something.”

“Be serious.”

“Never,” he retorts, and it comes out sounding far sharper than he meant it to be.

Tater’s eyes soften. God, he’s so soft, but still so strong. He’s like….like….like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

Okay, so Kent really sucks at metaphors.

 

How did he ever become friends with this man?

There was that first game, the dirty-goal game, the game that started it all. The game that led to the second game where Mashkov checked him into the boards twice, and the third where Kent impulsively retaliated to a stream of angry Russian with a string of faintly remembered French curse words, and the day when #ParsonvsMashkov started trending on Twitter. Eventually Kent couldn’t troll a single hockey blog without catching sight of a gif of himself getting hauled up by the scruff of his neck, and he’s pretty sure he even caught a few glimpses of erotic fanfiction. He manfully resisted the temptation to read any of it, because he’s learned from the Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann tags on various websites that what seems hilarious on the surface can quickly take a dark turn, and -  _ yeah _ , not thinking about that anymore.

Then, of course, there was that P.R. event. His manager, Laila, is one of the most intimidating women he’s ever met, and Kent knows a lot of intimidating women. So he agreed without question when she told him about Mashkov’s flight into town tomorrow and the dinner she’d arranged for the two of them in one of the city’s quietest and most expensive restaurants, even if he seriously contemplated throwing himself off his balcony after hanging up the phone.

The dinner was a disaster. Kent’s face ached from the fake smile he’d held all night, the steak was undercooked and the garlic bread bland, and the only words he’d spoken to Mashkov were “hi”, “pass the salt”, and “thanks”.

“We can’t use any of those pictures,” Laila informed him the next day as soon as he picked up her call. “Christ, Kent, if you’d been clenching your jaw any tighter it would have snapped right off. Be ready for another trip out tomorrow.”

They made it through three more high-end restaurants without getting a single social media-worthy photo, and Kent was convinced that pretty soon the costs of these meals would add up to to a figure higher than his annual salary. Plus, his chance of death by Laila’s perfectly manicured hands were getting higher by the day, or possibly by the minute.

So on the fifth night, fueled by fear and cocktails and an hour of his pre-game playlist on repeat, Kent Parson managed to have an actual conversation with Alexei Mashkov.

To be honest, he’s still not really sure how. It started off with him asking some incredibly inane question - he honestly thinks it might have been “What’s your favorite color?” - and ended with them both doubled over and gasping for air after Alexei told the worst, longest, most childish pun Kent’s ever heard in his life. Somewhere in the middle there were apologies for the games that came before, maybe. He’s not sure.

The picture of them wheezing with laughter graced the top of both the Aces and the Falconers Twitter accounts the next morning. The sheer number of likes and retweets it accumulated meant the two were forced to go out together every day for the rest of the week - in actual public, this time, with living and breathing people who were willing to tackle both of them for autographs.

But they survived. They survived the Shark Reef Aquarium, and the High Roller Ferris wheel, and Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks, and even the Natural History Museum, and somewhere in the middle of an argument with Tater about how scientists decide on the names for newly discovered species, Kent realized that he might actually like the man as a friend.

Shoot.

Tater, being significantly more emotionally intelligent than Kent, was the one to scribble a phone number across the back of the other’s hand along with a sloppy “CALL ME :)” before leaving on his last flight.

Kent’s good at texting, if you’re a fan of dazzling wit and sublime punctuality and the absolutely perfect placement of GIFs. Tater’s also good at texting, if you’re a fan of copious emojis and capital letters everywhere that capital letters shouldn’t be and pictures of small animals sent at completely bizarre hours.

They made it work, oddly enough.

Or at least, they did, right up until now.

Kent Parson is suddenly and terrifyingly aware that he could fall in love with Alexei Mashkov, and that is why he has to end this right this very second.

“Get out.”

Tater just sits there for a moment, blinking his stupidly pretty eyes, forcing Kent to repeat himself. “Get out of here, Tater. I mean it. Leave.”

“Thanks for nice evening,” Tater says as he rises from his chair. Goddamnit, he’s actually being sincere.

Kent needs to stop talking, but he can’t seem to. “I can’t give you 2.5 kids and a white picket fence. I can’t give you anything. And I’m not  _ ready _ . And don’t tell me you’re gonna wait for me or some romance-novel crap like that, because I might never be ready, okay?”

“I will not be waiting for you,” Tater tells him. “But I hope that you will become ready someday, Kent Parson. You deserve that.”

“Shut up.”

For once, Tater does. But before he shrugs into his coat and slips out the door, closing it quietly, he pulls a business card from his right pants pocket and drops it on the dining room table.

The card advertises the services of a Doctor Janelle Reissman, LPC.

Kent tosses it in the trash can.

However, when Kit Purrson interrupts his mope-while-listening-to-upbeat-pop-music session by hurling herself onto his chest and purring hard enough to drown out Beyonce’s heavenly vocals, there’s a small, thin, rectangular something clenched in her teeth, damp with cat spit.

She drops it on his nose before suddenly hissing and bounding away again.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Kent says aloud to the universe.

“The narrative will find a way, bro!” the universe hollers back at him, or so Kent thinks for a heart-attack-inducing moment, before he realizes that the universe sounds suspiciously like his crazy next-door neighbor, John something. Or Johnson something. He’s not really sure. The guy was clearly either a philosophy or English Lit major, because every time Kent runs into him in the hall he starts talking about foils, redemption arcs, and the ephemerality of life. But whatever.

Kent throws his alarm clock at the wall - “Sorry, dude, but this has the potential to be a pivotal plot point, yanno? EMBRACE IT!” - and closes his eyes. He’ll deal with the mess he made in his kitchen and the mess Tater made of his heart tomorrow.


End file.
